45 Reign over the Frozen Heavens
by Amorphous Blue Blob
Summary: Placeholder, for now. A reincarnation fic, with Danny Fenton being Captain Hitsugaya's reincarnation. Accordingly, au for Bleach. Understandably, also au for Danny Phantom. Standard ships. For more information, please see my profile.


**Reign over the Frozen Heavens**

Chapter One: And then, the Accident Happened

(because, y'know, I don't always need to have a prologue)

Growing up, Danny Fenton was the quiet, reserved child of the two siblings, bright in the academic sense, but a bit awkward amongst his peers. His interests tended towards the sky; he was forever looking up, night and day, at the blue. His parents noted his interest, and bought him reference books, and he set to learning the names of the constellations, the passage of the stars through the heavens. He took an interest in astronomy, for it was as close as he felt he could come to the sky.

When he learnt of mountain climbing, he determined that he would climb those tall monoliths someday, when he was older, and had the stamina and training. His parents put research into that, too, and signed him up for classes when he was old enough. They were very distant parents, devoted to their work, but they meant well, and they tried to give their children everything they might want. And Danny was _happy_. He was a cheerful, if shy, child.

But at night, from earliest childhood, he dreamt of another path to take (another path taken?). He dreamt of flight, early, of passage through fascinating heights. It was glorious; it was routine;, it was strange; it was familiar. He woke disappointed that it would not continue, reaching for the skies, forgotten names at the tip of his tongue, and sometimes in tears, for lost, forgotten joys and pleasures, camaraderie, friendship, family who were _there_.

Sometimes, when his parents were around, he behaved in rather disturbing ways for a child his age, with words and other knowledge gleaned from his dreams, he spoke of ordinary things, at first, of a girl he had known, and loved ("not in _that_ way", he'd assured his parents, without knowing what _that way_ meant, he didn't know that he meant "romantically", but his parents noticed that assurance, and were even more disturbed). As time progressed, he migrated across a variety of topics, swords and how to fight, first, spirits and ghosts (this pleased Jack rather, until Maddie glared at him). But as more time passed, and he was coming close to the double digits (and oh no, those dread teenage years!) he spoke less and less of wonder and flight, and more of fighting, war, bloodshed, _death_.

"She died; I killed her; I didn't mean to kill her!" his mother came up from the basement-lab to find him sobbing into the kitchen table. She went to him, straightaway, pulling off her gloves to avoid poisoning him with hazardous chemicals, she held him close, and he buried his head in her chest and sobbed. He was never really the type for tears, even without that (_Ridiculous!_ Maddie thought to herself) notion that boys should never cry, that that was a _girl_ thing. She held him close, rocked him, gently, stroked his hair, and stayed, stayed, stayed, 'til he stilled, quietened, calmed, and embarrassment overcame his guilt and grief.

She didn't understand his behaviour, didn't know its cause, blamed video games and television, in those later hours when she had the chance to think through things. Trying to gently probe for a better answer had not availed her.

But, deprived of his computer, with his video games locked safely away, he sought in vain for a distraction from the blood-war-death that pervaded his nightmares. He knew the constellations by heart, and he knew the basics of rock-climbing. It was hardly something his parents would let him practice on his own, without an instructor, anyway. Maybe when he was older, they said, but not yet. Well, he was only eight years old. He supposed that that was reasonable.

But there were no distractions. He didn't have a cell phone (his parents didn't believe in them, had heard horror stories of their effects on children, and had elected to delay this for as long as possible), and without his computer, he couldn't even chat with his only friend, Tucker Foley. He was alone, and the nightmares were a hundred times worse.

He found himself dwelling on the figures of his dreams. There was too much consistency—the same people, and places, over and over. Surely, that was not how dreams were supposed to behave. He reached out for names, for any sort of knowledge, where it was, when it was, _who they were_, but came up with nothing.

But as he aged, the nightmares became less frequent, more distant, and if he showed unusual talent in the sword fighting classes his mother had reluctantly agreed to, it at least didn't reawaken old nightmares, old regrets. It seemed, by the time he'd hit his teens, that that was all in the past. All put behind him.

And then, the accident happened.

Growing up, Danny Fenton was the small, slight member of his family, always shorter than his sister Jazz even had been at his age. The muscle strength built up through rock-climbing and sword-fighting never visibly accumulated, seeming to disappear into thin air. He looked scrawny and small, but was possessed of a wiry strength, when he thought to use it. Because of this, bullies often chose to pick on him. He bore it with an almost tangible feeling of resignation.

Unlike his sister, Jazz, who, with her fiery red hair and angular face closely resembled her mother (save for the mysterious sea green eyes), Danny resembled each of his parents in equal measure. He shared his sister's and mother's lithe frame, and short stature, and he had also inherited her angular facial structure, but he was most definitely his father's son, with that messy black hair, and dark, deep blue eyes. He had none of Jack's solid mass, however, nor his ravenous appetite that ensured his weight never sank below 250 pounds. He might never acquire Jack's bulk, but his most dominant physical features recalled him to mind.

Danny had paler skin than Jazz; despite how much time he spent outside, he never seemed to tan. He didn't seem to get sunburnt, either, however, so he dismissed the whole as unimportant. He had more important things to think on, even before school started.

There was a period of transition, where, in his earliest childhood, he had dwelt upon the dreams of flight, the stars, great physical heights, as he came to comprehension of those, and his dreams shifted to less pleasant things, his focus shifted to school, to the faintly-recalled precepts of algebra, to the less familiar lessons of English and music. He devoured his education, spent much time studying, and practicing, and learning, whether at home, at his extracurricular lessons, or at school. His appearance was not a matter of importance to him. His fluffy, flyaway hair remained such, and saw a comb only when it was demanded of him. He had more important concerns.

He played hard, worked hard, studied hard, but still managed to find time to spend with his only friend, Tucker, and to play video games, and to just hang out. He knew how to occasionally set his work aside, and just have fun, but never let it get out of hand. He could, with almost a practiced ease, balance work and play, responsibility and fun. His life found a trail, a well-trodden path, and things ran smoothly. Even when he started high school at age fourteen, and made his new friend in the form of the girl he'd never thought much about bar an accident in elementary school. She'd had blonde hair, back then, and dressed in girly clothes, all pastel pink and Mary Janes. Later, as he came to know her better, he wondered how much of that was of her own volition.

The new Sam Manson favoured black in all things. She wore black leggings, and black boots, and had spray-painted her simple canvas backpack a uniform black. She became new, and strange, and yet familiar, as if he'd seen her, in his dreams. That was impossible, of course, but she reminded him of someone, with her hair dyed black, and pulled into a ponytail behind her, all in black, with her black bag. The lavender accents at the trim of her otherwise black clothes struck him as discordant with this sense of familiarity, as wrong, although they really did match the colour of her eyes, so too all outward appearances, they fit. But it didn't feel right. Still, she was the goth. He'd let her make her own decisions.

The three of them became fast friends, despite differences in their eating habits (Jack Sprat could eat no fat; his wife could eat no lean, or rather the other way around). They argued often, with varying degrees of actual hostility, of the merits of an all-meat versus all-veggie diet. Danny quickly gave up trying to stop this, and made sure to balance his diet even more carefully. It would not do to seem to favour one over the other.

Danny received excellent marks in all his classes, and didn't seem to need to work hard to maintain a high grade. He spent much of his time hanging out with his friends, playing games, studying, true, but generally enjoying himself. All in all, Danny Fenton led a charmed life.

And then, the accident happened.

It happened late one night, in what is generally called the wee hours of the morning, as the witching hour approached. The previous day, at midday, his parents had called him and his sister, Jazz, down to see their newest invention. All four of them watched as Jack yelled "Banzai", and snapped the two ends of the power cord together, delivering power to the Fenton ghost portal, a portal designed to connect to the land of the dead. Jazz had scoffed at the idea, but Danny had felt that strange tug of familiarity, that there really was such a world, that it could be accessed via a door, and that that was a _bad idea_, and best not attempted. Not that this door would work, anyway. He was certain that, although it might well connect to another world, it would _not_ connect to the land of the dead.

It didn't work, for whatever reason. The four of them stared, for a few seconds, waiting for it to charge up, and then Jack and Maddie, shoulders slumped, stumbled away, as if they'd become zombies. They ignored (didn't hear?) the children's prying queries as to what could have been wrong, were they just going to quit, were they alright? Maddie went upstairs, and made her family's special macaroni and cheese, something she only made when she was truly devastated about something—she claimed it was too fattening, otherwise (usually with a glance towards Jack).

Despite his earlier speculation about how the portal would (or rather, _wouldn't_) work, Danny found himself dwelling on the matter. He schemed with Sam and Tucker to return after everyone had gone to bed, to examine the portal further, himself, and set himself to the task of fixing his parents' invention, if he could. Perhaps a fresh set of eyes (or three) would notice what had eluded his parents. There was no use including Jazz, of course; she would scold him for being reckless, and camp out outside his room to prevent him from doing just that. And tell their parents. All with the best intentions, unfortunately.

Down they went, creeping down the stairs, as the witching hour crept closer (they'd fallen asleep, despite their best efforts to stay awake). Danny hissed a reminder that there were hazardous chemicals in the lab, and the Fenton family suits were mandatory. He urged them to stay back, as he, grimacing, removed the custom-tailored suit from its hanger, holding it up in front of him (Sam took a picture, snickering, as he scowled at her), a suit with his father's face attached to it in the form of one of those embroidered patches. Sam ripped it off, and, in a burst of inspiration, slapped a black ghost sticker over it. Danny didn't even want to know why she had them, or where they came from. His mind and his focus redirected themselves to the problem at hand.

Suddenly, this all seemed a _very_ bad idea.

"You know, guys, maybe we shouldn't do this," he said, glancing at the incomprehensible gauges behind him. One of them was labeled "current". That didn't sound good. But Sam scoffed, waving a hand.

"You're wearing a protective suit, Danny. You can't chicken out. Neither Tuck nor I can go in that tunnel; we don't have the suits, as you've told us a hundred times."

Danny folded his arms, and glared at her. There was a strong desire to protect his friends from...something, but the _what_ eluded him. It was infuriating.

"Forget it. I'm going back to bed. My parents are the experts. They can work on it more, tomorrow."

Sam widened her eyes into the most insufferable puppy dog expression he had ever seen. He heard Tucker, staring down at his PDA, snicker in the background. Making noise was a mistake, as it only made Sam round on him. "Come on, Tucker, help me out here!" cried Sam.

"Uh, dude, we _did_ kind of stay up all night to see this thing more closely," Tucker began. "Think of all the beauty sleep I missed!"

"And he _needs_ it," said Sam, in a fake whisper. "Come on, Danny," she said, turning to her new friend. "Don't you wonder what sort of awesome, super-cool things exist on the other side of that portal?"

Danny, who had been walking towards the stairs leading from the basement, paused, and turned, and then slumped.

"I guess you're both right. And I _did_ put on the suit. Dad will wonder why...I'd hate to get in trouble, and have _nothing_ to show for it."

He turned back to the basement lab, to that dark tunnel. He steeled himself, and approached, drawn in as if by magnetism. Something about it, the idea of a door to the otherworld, called to him, even as that same part insisted that it was too good to be true.

_"Too good to be true"?_

"I'm going inside to see if I can find any loose wires, or anything," he said, shaking his head to dispel that little voice. That not-so-little voice, that insisted that this was all madness, and foolishness, and that he should ignore his friends, turn around, go back to bed. He found that his feet moved without his being aware of it, and now that dark, dark tunnel (he'd surely seen its like elsewhere, hadn't he, hadn't he, hadn't he?) loomed before him, twice as tall as he, a vast, circular hole, boring through the underworld. He shivered, thinking that perhaps he'd been wrong, after all. Perhaps this _could_ pierce through into the next world.

If it worked. Which it didn't.

He walked in, hand along the left-hand wall as a guide, gingerly feeling along the wall, pausing at each hanging cord to ensure that it hadn't come loose. He walked deeper and deeper in, made the mistake of turning back to see that the basement seemed now a world away. He was in some sort of between world connecting his with that of ghosts. He shuddered, turned back around to face forwards, continued on into the greater darkness of the tunnel, always cautious, always feeling the wall for those cords.

There were cords on the floor, too. He tripped, his hand pressed against the wall with greater force than he'd intended, and then, a whirring noise, almost musical in tone, as something charged up. He froze, although he knew he should run. He yanked his hand from the wall, and started to turn, to flee. Green filled his vision, and a pain like that of a static discharge sparked at his fingertips. Impossibly, it intensified, until it flooded his knowledge, filled his mind, and he could think of nothing else. He didn't realise that he was screaming. He didn't realise that energy, foreign, familiar, strange, was racing through his body at a rate to stop his heart. There was nothing but pain.

The next thing he knew, he was sitting on the sofa in the living room, with his mother and father bent over him in concern. Jazz, Sam, and Tucker stood nearby, Sam with her head in her hands, Jazz's face paler than his, drawn, gaunt. Tucker was shaking, fumbling his PDA, as he tried to pretend that nothing was wrong.

"How are you doing, sweetie?" asked Maddie, with a shaky, strained smile. Danny stared up at the ceiling, trying to figure out what had happened. How had he come to be _here_, when he thought for sure he'd die of the pain down in the basement?

"What happened?" he asked, mumbled, barely registering his mother's words. His head _throbbed_, and the rest of his body tingled and burnt. Even his mouth stung as he tried to shape words, and he grimaced, but that hurt too, of course. Why had he gone into the tunnel? That was a _stupid_ move. Hadn't his parents taught him anything of caution?

Maddie and Jack looked at each other, just a glance, but there was no trace of humour in Jack's usually jovial face. Sam's head stayed in her hands; she hadn't moved at all. She could've been a statue. Jazz's eyes were dead, and she was shaking as she cried as silently as she could. Tucker's expression was a study of concentration, as if he were totally engrossed in his PDA, but Danny knew him too well to think that that was true.

"We were hoping that you could tell _us_ that," said Maddie, her voice gentle, and soothing. He tried not to cry out as she brushed back hair from his forehead, but she saw the flash of pain in his eyes, and drew back. Jack held out a block of fudge. Maddie shot him a reproving glance, and he bowed his head, and set it back in its tin. Danny closed his eyes. Everything was too bright, there was too much movement, too much noise, too much...life.

"I don't know what happened," he said, forcing the words out. He could do that. He could be strong. His parents needed to know. "We snuck downstairs, Sam, Tucker, and I, to see if we could get the portal working. I went in, and—"

Pain. A glowing green vortex of light, energy coursing through him, the certainty that he would die, here and now, as a single moment strained to stretch itself between the now and eternity. Danny shuddered, and became acquainted with injuries he hadn't previously noticed. He cried out, and Maddie gave a mournful sigh.

"Oh, baby, that's so dangerous. Why didn't you use one of the suits your father had made for you?" Her voice was filled with, not reproach as he'd expected, but grief. "You know better," she tried to scold him, but she was too worried. Too frightened—worried and scared that her son had sustained permanent damage. They couldn't take him to the hospital—there were none better suited to treating his injuries than Maddie and Jack themselves.

His mind caught on her question. Didn't wear his suit? Despite how badly his entire body hurt, he managed to lever himself up enough to glance down at his scorched white t-shirt, the burns covering his bare arms. Now he understood the abrasive pressure of his jeans against his raw skin. His rubber shoes fared slightly better, but the hand that was his point of contact with the wall—his left hand, blazed in pain. He stayed upright just long enough to peek, and then fell back with a groan.

What was going on? Where had his suit gone? It must have burnt up in the accident. But then, why weren't Sam and Tucker correcting his mother's assumption?

"It was our fault, Mrs. F.," said Tucker. "We talked him into going in. But, we thought that the portal didn't work. I guess...we thought that there wasn't any need for safety measures."

Huh? Tucker lying, actively lying, as if there were some secret he were trying to hide? What was going on, here? Maddie pursed her lips, but said nothing. She sighed, again, and didn't bother looking in Jack's direction as he handed her a syringe full of some whitish fluid.

"I'm sorry Danny," she said, still in that soothing, gentle voice. "This will probably hurt even more, but it's for your own good, alright, sweetie?"

"Fenton men are tough! He can handle it! He's my son, after all!" Jack boomed, trying to inject levity into the grave situation at hand. Suddenly, his behaviour reminded Danny of someone, although whom he couldn't begin to guess. Someone else with black, short hair, and a background in...what, medicine? But who...?

He winced as the needle of the syringe slid into his body. Furious tapping came from over in Tucker's corner, drowning out his frantic muttering. Danny struggled not to smile. Tucker was terrified of hospitals, needles, and everything medical.

Sam was still a statue. "Anaesthetic, Jack?" Maddie asked Danny's father, and Danny felt the sensation of movement over his body.

"I'm sorry, Danny. This will hurt, too, but it should feel better after. You'll probably go back to sleep. But Danny, we _will_ talk about this later, understand?" She made a half-hearted attempt at severity, and Danny tried to nod. She was right. He _did_ end up passing out soon after. He was grateful for the temporary freedom from pain. Even if it came at the price of a return of those dreams that he'd thought gone forever. Dreams of death, and bloodshed, and war.


End file.
